


small tempest

by sora_san89



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, POV Second Person, Slow Burn, more characters appear, more tags to be added later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 02:32:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10350468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sora_san89/pseuds/sora_san89
Summary: They say surprises come in small packages.[or, a KageTsukki Kimi wa Pet AU, Second Person POV]





	

**Author's Note:**

> ahhhhh i hate myself. why do i keep doing this ;-;
> 
> in any case, this is a third attempt at writing a fic. i hope someday i can finish this. we'll have to see.
> 
> this is inspired by the manga Kimi wa Pet, which is something that ive been wanting to do for ages lol. this came to me one night and i cant stop my fingers from writing ever since. everyone might be terribly ooc and i dont do beta-reading so errors ahoy! plus its in 2nd person sooooo if its not your cup of tea, its fine :)
> 
> THANK YOU TO THOSE WHO'LL READ IT I APPRECIATE IT SO MUCH!!!!!

= = =

**i.**

= = =

The rays of sunlight from the open window wasn't hot, but it was piercing through the thin skin of your eyelids, making you see red instead of the usual darkness. A slow, dull kind of ache slowly made itself known at the base of your head. Then it coursed around your shoulders, made its way to your arms, flitted itself onto your lower back and stayed by your tailbone. You noticed a slight pressure between your arms and forehead, and then you remembered that you fell asleep atop your table last night.

_Thud thud thud thud..._ a soft, steady pound in your head caused you to cringe.

Your eyes then slowly, blearily, slid itself open. You peeled your head off your arms. Blinking once, twice, thrice, a flurry of your lashes it made, until you can finally see your surroundings with clarity. Instinctively you swept your arm around your right, fingers smacking straight to a well-worn pair of eyeglasses. You place them over your face, a familiar comfort that eases you in.

You take a glance at your surroundings and narrow your eyes at the desk that served as your makeshift bed for almost two weeks now. A laptop was partly shut and set aside a corner. Papers were scattered, inked scribbles lining the margins. They were pinned on the corkboard on the wall across the desk, some even strewn lightly on the floor as they were perused. Pens, clips, candy wrappings, and a large mug halfway filled with stale, cold coffee were scattered atop the worktable. You wonder how you ended up with this mess. How unsightly. When have you become this disorganized?

You wonder if you made a mistake somewhere. What was it exactly that you were supposedly doing? Ah yes,

 

_writing._

 

Surely if your younger self would see you now, he'd raise an eyebrow as if to silently ask, _how you'd end up pursuing a career in writing, no less?_ Music maybe, you've always had a fascination for that. A field in science would also fit you, in a way. Something along the lines of archaeology or anthropology. Even astronomy would do, and not because there's the word moon in your name. In the subject of writing, you'd think you'd be suited to something more like journalism. And then there's volleyball, which pretty sure you know you're not bad at.

Writing stories though? You'd never imagine doing it in a thousand years.

But well, here you are, about to write your third novel. Your books were more suited to the tastes of the young adult, geared towards mystery and science fiction. And, not to brag or anything but your books have been favorably accepted, humbly saying. You've also been called a breakthrough novelist, and has been publicized to the entire country as a person who needs to be looked out for the next ten years*.

But recently, your editor has been pestering you to finally shift your target audience, hoping you'd explore a more, ahem-- _evocative approach._ Sure it was a request completely out of the left field but hey, this is your livelihood, and you gotta do what you gotta do. Besides, it is a definite challenge at your writing skills. Your pride wouldn't allow you to simply back down from that.

Lately though, you've been currently... hmm... well...

...you really don't want to admit it. Not yet.

You shook your head to get rid of those stupid thoughts. Right. You need coffee. A strong one. And a shower, maybe that would clear your mind off of useless ideas. Also you have to clean up your house and organize your things. How did you end up sinking so low?

You take a glance at the wristwatch you're wearing and hiss silently. _8:43 a.m._ You still have an appointment with your editor at nine. Perfect.

You silently hope this day doesn't escalate to worse.

 

= = =

 

"Ah, Tsukishima-kun," you turn your head at the person who spoke, already seated across a round wooden table, "you're here. Good morning."

"Morning." You had texted your editor beforehand about your being late to your usual meet-up. You arrived thirty minutes past ten in the morning. The two of you met up in a small cafe a bit distant from your residence. You take a seat across from your editor, a small woman who looked younger than her age. After ordering a cup of coffee, you met her gaze. She set aside her now-empty teacup and rested her hands atop the space. It was time for business.

"Alright, I'm going to be blunt with you Tsukishima-kun. Please be honest with me." You had an eyebrow raised at the suddenness of her words, but you nodded in affirmation.

"I've been your editor for the past three years, no? And I know I might be a bit unreasonable when I told you to try a different approach than usual. But you took up the challenge and I still have faith that you can do it...."

You swallowed, nervous. She wasn't your editor for three years for nothing. You already know what she is going to say next.

"....but ....the latest drafts you submitted... they're... well okay," she exhaled; you braced yourself.

"They're quite terrible! I mean, sure you have the words down pat, but there's something lacking about it. It feels... bland... and I just couldn't quite place where it's missing. Please tell me Tsukishima-kun, are you in a slump?"

You sighed. That was it. Your career is over.

"Tsukishima-kun? Are you okay?" Oh right, your editor just asked you a question.

"Um. Sorry. I just... well. Maybe. I guess I am. Sort of in a slump at the moment."

"Aww..." she cooed, which made you cringe inwardly, "Don't worry Tsukishima-kun. It happens to the best of us. You're still young, you have a lot of things to experience! Inspiration is everywhere, but maybe I've been working you too hard. You need to relax and unwind! Take a walk! Meet with friends! Listen to music! Read a book..."

You blinked. Your editor just went off into weird tangents again. She does that a lot, and you're used to it. You sipped your lukewarm cup and look back at what you've been doing the past few weeks. She has a point, when you think about it. You haven't been sleeping properly, caffeine is running on your veins, and your house is revolting, physically and atmosphere-wise. Maybe this was why your writing's taken a hit. Is this what a block in your head feels like? Your words won't flow as freely, as smoothly as before, like rolling stones forced to pass through a sieve. No matter how hard you try, the words wouldn't come out right.

It was an unpleasant feeling. You didn't like it one bit.

"Tsukishima-kun," you must've been frowning; you're editor's looking at you with concern, "maybe you should take a break for a short while. It might do you some good."

You'd like to be stubborn, to be honest. You'd like to say _I don't need breaks, I'm fine,_ but the longer you mull about it in your head, the more sense it made to simply take a moment and regain your bearings. After all, you aren't a machine, and what you are doing is _art_ , as well as _life_. It should be fine to take a step back and take a small rest.

"Well?" Your editor smiles, a small upturn of the lips.

"I'd like to have a month off. Or two." You take the plunge. Your editor's smile grows wider.

"Very well then. Two months it is."

 

= = =

 

There was a small feeling in your chest as you walked all the way home from the cafe. Your separated ways with your editor as she bid you good luck. Then you decided to take this moment to walk back to your apartment instead of flagging down a cab. Maybe it might clear your head.

You can't describe this feeling at all. It was a sort of lightness that still made itself permanent on the recesses of your inner consciousness. You may have not gotten rid of the unpleasantness of writer's block yet, but taking a small, hesitant step seemed to significantly affect it. Or maybe you were just overthinking some things.

Maybe this might be the reason why you have a block in the first place.

As you neared your apartment though, you noticed something in the distance. Your eyes narrow in suspicion.

There was a box. on. your. doorstep.

It was quite a large box, and it was blocking your doorway. It wasn't even sealed, for heaven's sake. It was probably filled with rubbish. Who had the guts to dump it in front of your house though? You were sure you made a terrific impression towards your neighbors. They still wouldn't dare step in your shadow in the years you've lived there. You clicked your tongue in annoyance.

You've almost, _almost_ given in to the urge of kicking the damn thing away from your sight. But that would make you look and feel stupid. As moments passed, the annoyance you felt was now tainted with a smidgen of curiosity at the object.

Your naturally deductive mind tried to work on a plausible idea about this strange box. If it was a bomb it would have to be placed in somewhere more inconspicuous. No names, addresses, nor stamps too, which means it wasn't a package. A box of rubbish it was then, hardly dangerous. You decided there was no harm in looking. You flip the flaps to peer inside.

And then you stared.

And stared.

And stared some more.

Because this could not be real. This could not be possibly real.

_There was a person. inside. the box._

_A person._

Your entire body went rigid for a moment, eyes roaming at the box's contents. Your first thought was _it's a dead body,_ but the rational part of your head decided to stop thinking about it and look closer before acting rashly.

The person was a male, definitely around your age. He was cramped inside the small space, long limbs curled on himself. Though it was hardly visible, you managed to see the slow rise and fall of his chest. Inwardly you sighed with relief at that knowledge. He had pale skin contrasted greatly by his dark locks. But what certainly caught and held your gaze was his face.

Rather, at how familiar it looked.

_Terribly familiar._

It was a face you haven't seen in ages, not since high school graduation. You weren't even close to being friends-- you both actually didn't tolerate the other much, only when you both really had to. And you were most certain that in college he would even further his passion at the time-- volleyball. You'd think he'd follow his little giant onto an even grander court. But then the surprisingly unexpected happened.

Around the end of the last year in high school, he suddenly disappeared.

Nobody had ever known what happened to him.

But apparently here he was, sleeping peacefully in a box abandoned in front of your house. A small, single word managed to slip out with your breath.

.

 

.

 

.

 

_"King."_

 

Oh, of all wonders.

 

= = =

/////

= = =


End file.
